


Ace of Cups

by SerpentsKiss



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Tarot Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentsKiss/pseuds/SerpentsKiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's relationship with Natasha is complicated by strange desires for the god who took over his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace of Cups

For all that Natasha had red in her ledger, Clint thought uncharitably that she ought to try having it in her head.

No, no, that was unfair. He owed Natasha. She'd freed him, after all, and that didn't even begin to touch on their shared history. But she'd done something else, too. Broken him out of one spell and left him deep in the grip of another and he was sure there was no way to break this one. It ate at him, kept him up day and night and infested his dreams when he did sleep. It wasn't born of memory, he was sure of that, but it was persistent, dyeing his thoughts and mind and dreams and even his decisions with a red not of blood but of desire. At first he hated Loki for it, then he was too tired, then he was too enamored. But it didn't matter. It was ceaselessly, unrelentingly, redundantly persistent... and something that he could never share.

That was hard to remember when he woke up at night beside her, panting and dripping with sweat. She'd think always that it was a nightmare, a memory, the PTSD they both suffered from and both coped with in the only way they knew how; stoicism. She'd touch him gently, with just her fingertips, letting him know she was there. She wouldn't do anything else until he reached for her, tucking her against him and kissing her in an effort to forget. She was always willing to distract him, and always more tender during those times than she was when they fell into bed together kissing and laughing and swatting each other.

He couldn't admit to her that the desire for her wasn't pure. Natasha might scoff at the concept of purity, but her feelings would be hurt, surely – after all, who woke from a dream about someone who had captured their mind and forced them to kill their comrades with a boner and then rolled over and demanded comfort from the woman he was supposed to care for? Not him, if he could help it. … the problem was, he couldn't.

They spent more nights apart than they did together. Clint would wake alone, with memories of a dream Loki's breath on his face, those thin and sensuous lips roving over his body and down, pausing to bite or suck in the most sensitive places, like his ribs and the inside of his hip. He knew somehow that Loki's nickname was “silver tongue” even though no Asgardian had ever told it to him, and he shuddered when he thought he knew why.

For ages the dream seemed to stop at about when Loki's lips hit the level of his hip. He'd wake hard and suffering and both hostile and desperate when Natasha wasn't there to comfort him. He began spending more and more time apart with her, guilty for letting her do so when she didn't actually understand why he needed her when he woke like that. As a result, his frustration only grew, and as it did, so did the dreams.

His mind had Loki down pat. The smirk, the laugh, the sharp words when the fantasy went further, when Loki took him in his mouth for the first (dreamed) time and made those lewd, wet noises around him. The way he pulled back with a slurping popping sound from Clint's cock and raised that unrepentant eyebrow because he knew Clint was just one more tiny lick away from finishing. The dreams that ended there were the worst of all, and led to him dirtying sheets time after time just as he woke and reached down to alleviate the discomfort of his erection (which was always in an inconvenient position).

Perhaps that was what it took, that constant aching frustration, for him to give in. He tried, one night, after torturous months, taking himself in hand. He closed his eyes as he went to bed and thought of Loki, purposefully imagined his eyes, his mouth, his voice. His wicked hands, trailing all over Clint's body. The staff, the blunt end of which he used to –

Clint cut that fantasy off abruptly, but not before his body had accepted the thought and the surge of lust it brought finished him. Ashamed yet satisfied, he rolled over to go to sleep, certain that he'd derailed the fantasy for the night.

He couldn't have been more wrong. Instead of being derailed, his mind throw him into it in full technicolor, instead of the dull half-images of his waking fantasy. Loki was kneeling between his legs, reaching up with one hand to pin one of Clint's knees to his chest while the other worked the end of the rod slowly into his ass. Loki's eyes were sharp on his, the smugness of his smirk ruined somehow by the way his mouth was slightly open and he was a little breathless, and how his tongue kept flicking out to dampen his bottom lip. He was clearly as intent on Clint as Clint was on him, and it was sheer torture. His dream self could only watch as Loki slowly forced the long handle as deep into him as it could comfortably go, then dragged it just as patiently back out, until it was just on the verge of leaving him completely. Then it would begin again, the slow in...

Clint could have sworn he would shrivel up and die if Loki kept doing this and not touching his cock. His dream self could see his own cock bobbing as Loki moved the weapon in him, the head of it damp with little pearls of precome, and he ached to reach out and wrap his hand around it and jerk, but something wouldn't let him. Loki saw him looking, saw him aching, apparently, and tut-tutted softly under his breath.

“Now, now, Hawkeye...” The words seemed to echo in a vast, empty space, seemed to come from all around him and surround him and he groaned with the frustration and pleasure of it all. “Now, now... you don't get to come until I say you do.”

And Loki – that bastard – leaned down and lay a long, slow lick up the length of his cock, from balls to just under the head, and then leaned back again and left it.

Clint howled. He howled so loudly in the dream that he jerked himself awake to find himself lying flat on his back, one knee folded up to his chest and his ass spread open and waiting. He was frozen for a moment in shock before reaching down past his aching cock to press a cautious finger to the tight rim of his ass. He half-dreaded, half-expected it to be wet with lube, stretched with the girth of Loki's glowing staff, but it wasn't. It was the same tight, dry hole that it had always been, because that just wasn't the way he liked it. … usually.

Taking a deep breath, Clint kept his leg to his chest with one arm flung around it. He brought the other hand to his mouth and wet his fingers, then slowly – cautiously – returned it to his ass. He was sure, distantly, that in the morning he'd be angry at himself, ashamed that he gave into – whatever this was. But right now he didn't care. He had to finish that dream, had to complete himself, had to somehow make it so he could sleep again.

He came before he'd gotten the second finger all the way into himself, and fell asleep as soon as he could roll over. For a few hours he slept peacefully, his tired body finally satisfied, something in him completed.

… then the dream started again. The tut-tutting filled his ears, and Loki was bending over him with an obviously fabricated and very hurt expression. “Now, Hawkeye...” with all of the condescending chiding of an adult to a misbehaving child. “I told you that you couldn't come until I told you to. Now we have to try again.”

And the echoing filled his ears and that mouth, that hot, wicked mouth descended on him again and those wet sounds seemed to take over everything and Loki's eyes bored into his as he pressed that horrible, silver tongue to Clint's slit and –

The world was quiet around Clint as he rolled over in bed, fast asleep and moaning into his pillow. From the corner of his bedroom, a dark shape stood, quiet and unassuming, just watching. The only color to it, the only light in that patch of darkness at all, was the bright glint of teeth as Clint bucked downward into the bed, grinding his hips into the mattress with an incoherent, protesting cry... and Loki grinned.


End file.
